was looking very uncomfortable.
“Oh, dear,” she said. “I didn't know. I never thought... I - well, of course, I'll ask David...”
Grimly gripping the sides of her chair, Adela said, desperately:
“Couldn't you give me a cheque - now...”
“Yes - yes, I suppose I could.” Rosaleen, looking startled, got up, went to the desk. She hunted in various pigeonholes and finally produced a cheque-book. “Shall I - how much?”
“Would - would five hundred pounds -”
Adela broke off.
“Five hundred pounds,” Rosaleen wrote obediently.
A load slipped off Adela's back. After all, it had been easy! She was dismayed as it occurred to her that it was less gratitude that she felt than a faint scorn for the easiness of her victory! Rosaleen was surely strangely simple.
The girl rose from the writing-desk and came across to her. She held out the cheque awkwardly. The embarrassment seemed now entirely on her side.
“I hope this is all right. I'm really so sorry -”
Adela took the cheque. The unformed childish hand straggled across the pink paper. Mrs Marchmont. Five hundred pounds. Rosaleen Cloade.
“It's very good of you, Rosaleen. Thank you.”
“Oh please - I mean - I ought to have thought -”
“Very good of you, my dear.”
With the cheque in her handbag Adela Marchmont felt a different woman. The girl had really been very sweet about it. It would be embarrassing to prolong the interview. She said good-bye and departed.
She passed David in the drive, said “Good morning” pleasantly, and hurried on.
Taken at the Flood
Chapter 6
“What was the Marchmont woman doing here?” demanded David as soon as he got in.
“Oh, David. She wanted money dreadfully badly. I'd never thought -”
“And you gave it her, I suppose.”
He looked at her in half-humorous despair.
“You're not to be trusted alone, Rosaleen.”
“Oh David, I couldn't refuse. After all -”
“After all - what? How much?”
In a small voice Rosaleen murmured, “Five hundred pounds.”
To her relief David laughed.
“A mere flea-bite!”
“Oh, David, it's a lot of money.”
“Not to us nowadays, Rosaleen. You never really seem to grasp that you're a very rich woman. All the same if she asked five hundred she'd have gone away perfectly satisfied with two-fifty. You must learn the language of borrowing!”
She murmured, “I'm sorry, David.”
“My dear girl! After all, it's your money.”
“It isn't. Not really.”
“Now don't begin that all over again. Gordon Cloade died before he had time to make a will. That's what's called the luck of the game. We win, you and I. The others - lose.”
“It doesn't seem - right.”
“Come now, my lovely sister Rosaleen, aren't you enjoying all this? A big house, servants - jewellery? Isn't it a dream come true? Isn't it? Glory be to God, sometimes I think I'll wake up and find it is a dream.”
She laughed with him, and watching her narrowly, he was satisfied. He knew how to deal with his Rosaleen. It was inconvenient, he thought, that she should have a conscience, but there it was.
“It's quite true, David, it is like a dream - or like something on the Pictures. I do enjoy it all. I do really.”
“But what we have we hold,” he warned her. “No more gifts to the Cloades, Rosaleen. Every one of them has got far more money than either you or I ever had.”
“Yes, I suppose that's true.”
“Where was Lynn this morning?” he asked.
“I think she'd gone to Long Willows.”
To Long Willows - to see Rowley - the oaf - the clodhopper! His good humour vanished. Set on marrying the fellow, was she?
Moodily he strolled out of the house, up through massed azaleas and out through the small gate on the top of the hill. From there the footpath dipped down the hill and past Rowley's farm.
As David stood there, he saw Lynn Marchmont coming up from the farm. He hesitated for a minute, then set his jaw pugnaciously and strolled down the hill to meet her. They met by a stile
“Oh, dear,” she said. “I didn't know. I never thought... I - well, of course, I'll ask David...”
Grimly gripping the sides of her chair, Adela said, desperately:
“Couldn't you give me a cheque - now...”
“Yes - yes, I suppose I could.” Rosaleen, looking startled, got up, went to the desk. She hunted in various pigeonholes and finally produced a cheque-book. “Shall I - how much?”
“Would - would five hundred pounds -”
Adela broke off.
“Five hundred pounds,” Rosaleen wrote obediently.
A load slipped off Adela's back. After all, it had been easy! She was dismayed as it occurred to her that it was less gratitude that she felt than a faint scorn for the easiness of her victory! Rosaleen was surely strangely simple.
The girl rose from the writing-desk and came across to her. She held out the cheque awkwardly. The embarrassment seemed now entirely on her side.
“I hope this is all right. I'm really so sorry -”
Adela took the cheque. The unformed childish hand straggled across the pink paper. Mrs Marchmont. Five hundred pounds. Rosaleen Cloade.
“It's very good of you, Rosaleen. Thank you.”
“Oh please - I mean - I ought to have thought -”
“Very good of you, my dear.”
With the cheque in her handbag Adela Marchmont felt a different woman. The girl had really been very sweet about it. It would be embarrassing to prolong the interview. She said good-bye and departed.
She passed David in the drive, said “Good morning” pleasantly, and hurried on.
Taken at the Flood
Chapter 6
“What was the Marchmont woman doing here?” demanded David as soon as he got in.
“Oh, David. She wanted money dreadfully badly. I'd never thought -”
“And you gave it her, I suppose.”
He looked at her in half-humorous despair.
“You're not to be trusted alone, Rosaleen.”
“Oh David, I couldn't refuse. After all -”
“After all - what? How much?”
In a small voice Rosaleen murmured, “Five hundred pounds.”
To her relief David laughed.
“A mere flea-bite!”
“Oh, David, it's a lot of money.”
“Not to us nowadays, Rosaleen. You never really seem to grasp that you're a very rich woman. All the same if she asked five hundred she'd have gone away perfectly satisfied with two-fifty. You must learn the language of borrowing!”
She murmured, “I'm sorry, David.”
“My dear girl! After all, it's your money.”
“It isn't. Not really.”
“Now don't begin that all over again. Gordon Cloade died before he had time to make a will. That's what's called the luck of the game. We win, you and I. The others - lose.”
“It doesn't seem - right.”
“Come now, my lovely sister Rosaleen, aren't you enjoying all this? A big house, servants - jewellery? Isn't it a dream come true? Isn't it? Glory be to God, sometimes I think I'll wake up and find it is a dream.”
She laughed with him, and watching her narrowly, he was satisfied. He knew how to deal with his Rosaleen. It was inconvenient, he thought, that she should have a conscience, but there it was.
“It's quite true, David, it is like a dream - or like something on the Pictures. I do enjoy it all. I do really.”
“But what we have we hold,” he warned her. “No more gifts to the Cloades, Rosaleen. Every one of them has got far more money than either you or I ever had.”
“Yes, I suppose that's true.”
“Where was Lynn this morning?” he asked.
“I think she'd gone to Long Willows.”
To Long Willows - to see Rowley - the oaf - the clodhopper! His good humour vanished. Set on marrying the fellow, was she?
Moodily he strolled out of the house, up through massed azaleas and out through the small gate on the top of the hill. From there the footpath dipped down the hill and past Rowley's farm.
As David stood there, he saw Lynn Marchmont coming up from the farm. He hesitated for a minute, then set his jaw pugnaciously and strolled down the hill to meet her. They met by a stile
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